‘Who’s Valentine then?’ Denise asked. She fiddled with the black bra strap that was escaping from underneath her white, chunky-knit tank top.
‘He’s Italian i’n he?’ Derek replied.
‘That’s Valentino,’ I offered. ‘It was after Saint Valentine.’
‘The singer? The one in the rocking chair wi’ the dodgy cardies.’ Denise looked pleased with herself.
‘That’s bloody Val Doonican, ya stupit wuman.’ Derek tutted and gestured to me for another pint.
‘Aye well, whoever it was,’ Vinny continued, ‘he must have been a bloody florist. They’re lovin’ it man. Better than bleedin’ funerals fer them it is. Straits, all the bunches of red flippin’ roses at fifty poont a go. Bloody lasses.’
‘Even the men get flowers these days, Vinny,’ I smiled.
‘You what?’
‘Yeah sure, it’s “PC” for the men to get flowers as well as the women these days.’
‘I’ll give ya “P flippin’ C” like.’ Vinny tutted and shook his head. ‘Howay lass, dain’t be stupid.’
‘It’s true Vinny. Some men love getting flowers. It’s supposed to be romantic.’
He stared at me incredulously for a moment.
‘Aye, well it’s nay wonder the world’s in such a canny mess.’ He hung his head dramatically. ‘The men are turnin’ into bleedin’ ponces. Jaysus man, the day I get flowers I hope they’re on me bloody gravestone, I tell’t ya.’
I laughed at Vinny’s disgust and patted him supportively on the arm.
‘Men even give each other flowers these days, Vinny,’ I added for good measure.
‘Howay! Now I know yer havin’ us on. Give us another pint.’
I was glad to be working. At least it took my mind off my lack of admirers, secret or otherwise. My unrequited love for Jack and my recent spate of disastrous dates did not bode well for a day of unadulterated romance. In my honour, the pub had been declared a couple-free zone. No public displays of affection, no Bryan Adams songs within a one-mile radius and certainly no heart-shaped canapés or special celebratory lurve cocktails. Denise and Derek were the exception to the couple rule. They maintained their usual habit of shouting obscenities at each other from opposite ends of the bar. Very refreshing, I thought. I would forgive you for thinking I was a party-pooper, driven by the green-eyed monster, but that wasn’t true at all. I saw my task as providing a much-needed public service. Carefully maintaining one haven of doom and gloom in this pink, fluffy, love-struck world.
How is it that a single period of twenty-four hours can drive a person totally insane? I was beginning to develop a nervous twitch from looking at my watch so many times while praying for the speedy arrival of February 15th. I hoped it would just sneak up on me but to no avail. I prayed to Saint Jude, the patron saint of hopeless cases (the one I seemed to use most often), but no response. I think Jude was probably tied up trying to sort out the rest of my life, which was bound to keep the poor sod busy. The minutes crawled by with the brain-numbing pace of the Queen’s Christmas speech. Metallica, Dexy’s Midnight Runners and various heavy thrash bands were playing on repeat in a wholly unromantic manner and I was slowly metamorphosing into Victor Meldrew’s granddaughter. I would be lying if I said I had completely given up hope of a sudden rush by Interflora but it appeared my admirers were so secret that even they didn’t know who they were.
By 11:00, I was more than happy to call last orders. A cold, lonely single bed seemed to be the only suitable conclusion to such a crap day. I sighed and rang the heavy bell at the end of the bar. Hearing the front door slam shut, I turned just in time to see two small boys creeping down the steps into the pub. The smallest had a drastic haircut which resembled a few pieces of velcro stapled to his head. He wore baggy green combat trousers and a reflective silver and orange jacket. Hardly the correct attire for a covert mission. His friend had straggly, long brown hair, a stained T-shirt adorned with images of marijuana leaves and a pair of jeans big enough to set up camp in. A heavy silver chain trailed from the front pocket of his jeans to the back. I wondered which pocket housed his pet Rottweiler. Both boys, I noticed, sported the latest look in trainer technology. Fabric that glowed with radioactive proportions and enough air pockets to keep a man alive in space for weeks.
Blissfully unaware of having been rumbled, the smallest boy led the way past the cigarette machine, underneath the tables that ran alongside the barred windows, towards the furthest corner of the pub where they would be out of sight of the bar. I headed them off at the dartboard and grabbed the warm, discarded pint of lager just as it reached the smallest boy’s lips.
‘Evening boys, nice of you to join us.’
The young drinker lifted his odd-shaped head and glared at me. What he lacked in height, he certainly made up for in bravado, unlike his friend who cowered behind his overgrown fringe.
‘Ah howay man, wuman, man,’ the boy growled, ‘I jest want a sip, like. Wor da’ lets us drink.’
‘Maybe he does but not in my pub.’
‘I’m eighteen, ye kna.’
(Eighteen months more like.)
The taller, skinny boy cast a quick, puzzled look at his friend. He nudged him and whispered, ‘Give it to ’er.’
‘Give me what? Or perhaps you’d like to give whatever it is to the police?’
I was slightly concerned about the prospect of being done over by two four-foot assailants but I managed to keep my headmistress-like cool.
‘Ah bloody pigs, man,’ the small boy grunted, ‘locked wor Chad up they did, the bastards.’
He reached down into the depths of his knee-length pocket and pulled out a crumpled envelope.
‘Posh git ootside tell’t wur ta give ya this.’
‘Aye, paid wuz an’ all,’ added his friend shyly.
‘Aye, we didny wanna gan in yer poxy pub anyways, but he said ta give it ta the fat ’un wi’ curly hair. Must be you, like.’
(Bastards.)
I stared at the envelope, immediately recognising the handwriting. During my time with Jack, I had received enough scribbled notes excusing him from one date or another to recognise his scrawl at twenty paces, the coward.
‘Where is he?’ I yelled at the boys, a little over-excitedly.
‘Ootside!’ they screeched simultaneously, pointing towards the door.
Without stopping to read the contents of the letter, I scrambled for the door and almost fell out onto the dark street. Playing hard to get was not my style.
‘Sad cow,’ I heard the young boys say as I left them behind.
The Shoe was the only car parked nearby, as Maz had taken the Metro to her latest hot date in town. Up the hill to the left, a group of lads kicked each other, and occasionally a football, around the road. A broken street light restricted my view down the hill. Straining my eyes, I could just make out an old couple walking slowly hand in hand and two large dogs doing unmentionable things against a lamppost. No sign of Jack or his midnight blue BMW (known affectionately in the area as a Break My Windows). Damn. A millisecond of expectation had got my hormones raging. Suddenly remembering my underage customers, I unwillingly dragged myself back into the pub, clutching the envelope in my sweaty palm.
Eventually, the pub cleared and the mouths of my two young friends were surgically removed from the spouts of the beer pumps. Through an amazing display of willpower, I had managed to keep the envelope sealed and in my pocket. My immediate reaction had been to rip the damn thing open, but I had decided that a Valentine’s note from Jack was a moment to savour. Finally alone, I settled myself on a barstool and, shaking with anticipation, slowly opened the crumpled, ivory envelope and began to read its contents.
Dear Jennifer
I apologise for my lack of correspondence but I have been terribly busy with my career, a word I’m sure you recognise from your past. [Snobby git.] The account with Paradise TV is thriving and I am doing terribly well. Our last meeting was amusing if nothing else. Your ‘punters’ wer
e quick to the chase but a little out of condition to outrun me. I must say, seeing you as a barmaid was a real eye-opener. You seem to have slipped into the role so easily. [Not sure if that’s a compliment. Come on, get to the slushy bit, Jack.] Anyway Jennifer, I shall come to the point. [At last.] Further to my visit, I have decided to advise my client to sell the Scrap Inn as soon as possible. I have explained that the pub is not viable for future investment and would be better sold to a buyer outside the industry. The land would be valuable as a quayside development prospect. In other words, Jennifer, the pub shall be no longer. I hope you appreciate my forewarning you as, of course, there will be no need for barmaids in the very near future.
Yours sincerely,
Jack.
P.S. I suppose I should wish you a Happy Valentine’s Day as I’m sure you’re pining for cards.
[Git, git, git, git, git!]
I stared at the letter for what seemed like hours, trying to absorb what I had just read. OK, there wasn’t much scope for an incorrect interpretation, but I couldn’t believe it. The tone was so cold and heartless. How could he be so spiteful? Blimey, I used to nibble this man’s earlobes and lick squirty cream off his body and this is how he repays me. From the tone of the letter, I half expected Jack to appear in a flash of lightening and dry ice, wearing a long black cape and yelling ‘Ha, Ha, Ha’ in a deep blood-curdling voice.
Jack, my Jack, was pushing for the closure of the pub and, knowing him, he’d get it. I couldn’t believe the vindictiveness of it all. Maz would be heartbroken and I would lose my second job in as many months. We’d both be homeless and broke. This wasn’t supposed to happen. At that point, I should have been in the middle of a candlelit dinner with the man of my dreams, preparing myself for a night of passion, not sitting alone contemplating the prospect of living in an upturned skip and eating out of bins. Mind you, even skips are extortionate to hire these days. We’d be lucky to get a generous-sized shoebox.
It suddenly hit me how important the pub was to both Maz and me. Not to mention how big a role it played in the lives of the locals. Auld Vinny, Derek, Denise and the rest of my new, unlikely group of friends lived for their days of banter in the Scrap Inn. The lesbian darts team, where would they practise? Even my father loved the bizarre escapism the place provided.
I wanted to cry but I was too shocked. Did Jack really hate me that much or was the ‘All Men Are Bastards’ theory really so true? To Jack, work was everything. It seemed the pursuit of Partnership and wealth had clouded his vision. People obviously didn’t matter any more.
Looking around the empty bar, a sudden rage built up inside me. Slightly dingy, rough and full of so-called no-hopers (including myself) the pub may be, but it was special. It had an atmosphere I had never experienced before in my life and it had a purpose. There was no way I was going to let Jack ruin this place just to hurt me and close another deal. Screwing the letter up in my clenched fist, I threw it across the bar in anger.
‘You forget, Jack,’ I seethed aloud. ‘I was once a lawyer too, but I’m a real person. I won’t let you push me around any more. If it’s a fight you want, you’ve got it!’
Chapter Eleven
23rd February, 8:00 a.m.
Maz, Dave and I sat around the green plastic garden table that half-filled the kitchen, drinking treacle-like coffee out of semi-mouldy mugs. Numerous beer cans littered the pink-painted work surfaces, and the stench of curry wafted around my nose from the remains of various kormas, biryanis and vindaloos. It was becoming apparent that Dave’s presence in the flat did little for its aesthetic qualities.
‘Dave man,’ Maz sighed, ‘you’ve gotta clean up after yerself.’
‘Aye, I kna.’ Dave sucked the life out of a fourth cigarette and began to roll a joint.
‘And maybe limit these parties a bit,’ Maz continued.
‘Aye, I kna.’
I could see she wasn’t getting very far.
‘And stop smokin’ so much like. How’r you gonna get work if yer bloody stoned all the time man?’
‘I deen’t kna. Aye whatever.’
Maz groaned and returned to the agenda for the meeting. ‘So, has anyone thought of a plan, like?’
It was over a week since the delivery of Jack’s ‘love letter’ and we hadn’t yet thought of a possible way to thwart his master plan. Although we had heard no more about the proposed sale, I knew better than to ignore Jack in this devious frame of mind. I had never seen Maz so upset as when I had revealed the contents of the letter to her later that night.
Dave’s original suggestion had been knee-capping. It was horribly violent and totally out of the question but so far it was the only solution that had been offered. Hence the early morning war conference.
‘There must be a way to stop him,’ Maz said as she sipped the painfully thick coffee. ‘He can’t jest get rid of the pub that easy.’
‘He’s the lawyer though, Maz,’ I replied. ‘No one will even consider that he could possibly have ulterior motives.’
‘Let’s tell ’em then.’
‘Yeah, and they’re sure going to listen to me, aren’t they? The supposed drug baron who was fired from the firm after turning our best client’s meeting into a circus.’
She thought for a moment. ‘Meybe the brewery won’t listen to him. Aye, meybe they’ll keep the pub anyhow.’
‘I doubt it. Jack’s got a good reputation as a corporate solicitor. If they’ve asked for his advice then basically what he says goes. He hates me. I embarrassed him at work and I suppose he’s disgusted by the thought that people would connect him to a barmaid. If he’s out to get us, he’ll stop at nothing.’
Maz looked morose. She lit a tab.
‘Aye well, we’re fucked then.’
‘Thanks Dave for that analysis of the situation. Perhaps you could come up with something a little more positive.’
‘Howay, I did.’
‘Knee-capping is not really a viable option.’
‘Aye, but I …’
‘Neither is kidnapping, nor death threats.’
Dave sat back sulkily and sparked up the joint. We all sat in silence, staring at the crumpled letter that lay in the middle of the table. The brain drain seemed to have dried up already.
‘I wonder if this is how Maggie felt?’ Maz pondered aloud.
‘Maggie who?’
‘Maggie bloody Thatcher.’
‘When?’
‘You kna when everyone decided to gang up on ’er and kick ’er oot.’
‘Well, it’s hardly the same, Maz.’
‘Aye it is, kinda. Only difference is I didny give a shite when it happened to her.’
‘Aye,’ Dave nodded approvingly. ‘It’s like a declaration o’ war, man.’
I tried to retrieve the conversation from its bizarre tangent. ‘Let’s look at Jack’s strong points.’
‘None,’ Maz chipped in.
‘BM-bloody-W,’ Dave added through a haze of smoke.
I groaned. This was pointless. Suddenly Dave sat forward and cleared his throat, before taking a long drag on the spliff.
‘Howay, lasses, it’s obvious man. The tosser’s ganna tell’t the brewery to sell cos the land’s worth more to them than the pub, reet? Buyer comes in, canny loaded and doesny want a pub. Knocks doon the pub, reet, builds bloody swanky flats an’ sells ’em for a packet. Howay, the whole quayside’s gan that way. So, all wuz need to do is mek the land worth less an’ put the buyer off when he comes round.’
We stared open-mouthed at the previously incoherent Dave. He was right, of course. The land was the attractive asset for a buyer. With all the new developments in the area, pubs like the Scrap Inn would soon be a thing of the past. If we could somehow devalue the land in the buyer’s eyes we could perhaps thwart the sale. The only question was how.
‘Blimey, Dave. I don’t know what was in that joint you were smoking, but it must be good stuff.’
He laughed and got up in search of refreshments.
/> ‘More coffee, lasses?’
‘No!’ Maz and I replied in unison. All right, so he could come up with intricate analyses of situations, but his coffee really sucked.
We continued making plans until we had consumed a large packet of chocolate-chip cookies, five cold naan breads, and a litre of flat Coke. Well, they do say breakfast is the most important meal of the day and our brains desperately needed sustenance.
By 10:30 a.m. the fundamentals had been decided. I, ‘Agent Summer’, would contact Matt at Glisset & Jacksop in an attempt to discover the identity and visiting time of the proposed buyer. I would also vow never to think of Jack sexually again. Tough measures indeed. Maz, ‘Agent Fagash’, would discreetly rally the support of the punters and keep an eye out for suspicious characters. Dave ‘Agent Hard-as-nails’ would formulate a plan for land devaluation. Dave had ‘friends’, he said, who could be relied upon to help out in such a situation. To be honest, I wasn’t exactly sure of Dave’s intentions but, as land could not technically be knee-capped, and because we were getting desperate, I agreed to give him a fairly free rein.
‘Dave! Phone!’ Maz yelled from the lounge. ‘Some blowky called Chip. Bloody stupid name.’
‘My cellmate at Durham,’ Dave said in my general direction as he stumbled out of the room.
‘Really?’ I gulped. ‘Mmm, I think we’ve met.’
While Dave made plans with Chip for a fun-filled day of ‘drinkin’, smokin’ and sharkin’,’ Maz and I began to get ready to leave. Today was the start of our talk-show adventure, courtesy of the now distant Troy. The show was to be filmed in Newcastle the following day. All guests and VIP audience members (which was us) were to be provided with overnight accommodation in a five-star riverside hotel. Of course, this extravagant service was for those who had travelled far and wide for their fifteen minutes of fame. Not to be denied a night in a posh hotel, and weighing our finances against those of Paradise TV Company Ltd, Maz and I simply ‘omitted’ to inform the company representative that we lived approximately seven minutes up the road. Well, needs must.
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